All Through the Night

by Tara Johnson

  That’s where things changed. Different amputations required different saws. Different instruments and techniques. She could see nothing in the earlier part of the operation that would cause blood poisoning. It must have something to do with the instruments . . . but what?

  And many of the patients they received had already endured surgery in a battlefield hospital. In truth, Dr. Ivy had only performed a few surgeries in the past month. What was causing the men to suffer so?

  She glanced across the corridor to see Dr. Ivy hunched over his cluttered desk, his head in his hands, hair fisted in his fingers.

  Was the burden of his patients what weighed on him so heavily, or was it something more?

  Joshua stared at the low flame licking the wick of the sagging tallow candle on his desk. Twilight had descended, snuffing out the sunlight and plunging the hospital into darkness. The soft glow of lanterns lined the corridors and wards. His eyes burned with fatigue. Any more correspondence would have to wait for another day. One particular letter seemed to bore through him from the mess stretched across the desk. He capped the inkwell and set the pen aside. He’d have to give the general his answer soon. A muscle in his neck spasmed.

  If he were to agree to travel with the Union troops for a time, what would become of his carefully laid plans? The operation he’d so painstakingly put in place? Then again, discovery was much more likely if he grew lukewarm and stagnant. Several times in the past few months, he’d sensed someone watching him. Perhaps with a change of pace, a change of scenery, new contacts, he’d lessen the risk of discovery. But what of the children?

  Enough for one day. He must sleep. He blew out the candle and pushed back from the desk with a scrape. The acrid stench of smoke filled his nostrils as he stood and stretched his stiff limbs. He reached for his coat on the rack. No, not the green one. The brown. He slipped into its warmth and walked down the hallway. In the distance, he could hear the sharp click of booted heels. A patient coughing. Murmured words of comfort. And . . . singing.

  The soft melody grew louder as he wound his way into the largest ward. He stopped to see Miss Piper sitting next to Private Taylor’s bedside, her hand holding his as his chest faintly rose and fell. A single kerosene lantern sat on the bedside table, illuminating her perfect profile.

  “When we’ve been there ten thousand years,

  Bright shining as the sun,

  We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

  Than when we’d first begun.”

  For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting her sweet voice and the comforting words wash over him like rain on parched ground. A sniffle caused his eyes to fly open.

  Tears fell down her smooth cheeks, leaving golden tracks in the lantern light as she watched the soldier’s face. Joshua’s gaze shifted to the soldier. Private Taylor’s chest was no longer moving.

  He walked to Miss Piper’s side, placed his hand on her shoulder, and offered a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

  She wiped her face with shaky fingers and smiled despite her tears. “I know it’s silly to be weeping. I knew he was going to pass. Men die here every day, yet I hurt for them. Hurt for their families.” She looked up at him then, her blue eyes large in the soft light. “Does it ever get easier?”

  He sighed and knelt before her. “If you grow calloused to pain and suffering, then yes, it gets easier. If you don’t, it still hurts.” He swung his gaze to Private Taylor. The shadow of death had already stolen the look of life from his face. “Did he ask you to sing to him?”

  “No. In truth, I don’t even think he knew I was here, but—” she looked into Joshua’s eyes and his chest tightened—“no man deserves to die alone.”

  He nodded and tore his gaze from hers. “Kind of you.” He stared at his hands and fumbled for the words he wanted to say. “I never told you before—I mean, I should have, but, well, your voice. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  A sad look drifted across her face. “I don’t know. I’ve been singing for as long as I can remember. It’s always been my escape.” She looked into some place he could not see. “Music speaks when words don’t suffice.”

  “Rather cryptic.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “The patients love it, so however you came by this gift, I’m grateful.”

  The ghost of a smile played around her mouth. “Why, Dr. Ivy, I do believe you’re warming up to me.”

  He dropped his jaw and placed his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “The cranky Dr. Ivy?” He smiled. “Yes, Nurse Piper, you’ve taken to nursing with remarkable ease. I’m most pleased with your work.”

  She bit her lip and glanced down at her lap but not before he witnessed the telltale blush springing pink to her cheeks. Was his praise so rare that it actually elicited the bloom of heat? He struggled to think of any praise he might have doled out in the past week to Nurse Piper, Nurse McDougal, Nurse Pearson, or any of the other nurses. His mind came up blank.

  He must remedy such pitiful oversight.

  “Forgive me for not saying so earlier. You are one of the brightest nurses I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Nurse Piper?”

  Both of them looked up with a start at Nurse Meyers’s soft call. The elderly woman stood in the doorway.

  “Pardon the intrusion, but I could use your help distributing the next round of medicines.”

  Miss Piper stood and offered a small smile. “Thank you, Doctor. Your praise means much.”

  He rose and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t offer praise often or lightly. Something I intend to remedy.”

  Nodding, she took another long look at Private Taylor. “Should I stay until—?”

  “I’ll call for the night steward to take Private Taylor away. He’ll be prepared for burial on the morrow.”

  She pressed a solemn kiss to the dead soldier’s hand and slipped away into the darkened corridor. Joshua watched her go, his chest tight.

  Ever since the day he’d witnessed her standing on the street singing Francis Scott Key’s anthem surrounded by war-weary soldiers, their knapsacks at her feet, the woman had been a constant surprise. Had he really thought her shallow and vain? The idea seemed ludicrous now. Not after witnessing her determination and compassion.

  He rested his hand gently on Private Taylor’s shock of blond hair and bowed his head, murmuring a silent prayer for the Almighty’s blessing over the young man’s memory. Singing a dying man into Jesus’ arms. Joshua’s throat cramped. Miss Piper was far more than a nurse. She was an angel on earth.

  Sighing, he turned away. An angel he’d spent far too much time thinking about of late. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself grow attached to her or any other female. His work called. Voiceless faces silently cried out for help, both in the hospital and beyond. He’d not compromise freedom’s cry for the hopelessness of chasing daydreams.

  A patient thrashed two beds away, his hoarse pleas slurred in his delirium. “The snake! The order! They’s comin’ for me!”

  Joshua rushed to his side and grabbed his flailing arms before he hurt himself. The bearded soldier bucked, his eyes wild as he locked on to Joshua’s face. His pupils were large, his eyes darting about as if he were frantically trapped in some hellish nightmare.

  “Calm now, McHenry. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

  McHenry tried to shove him away with a shriek. Joshua fought to control the thrashing man. Every muscle strained to keep him down.

  “The Knights! You don’t understand! My brother turned to the order. I saw the emblem of the snake. They’ll kill my wife! Please!”

  The Knights? Struggling to make sense of the frantic cries, Joshua yelled, “Steward Swindle! I need my bag! Now!”

  Within moments, the lanky man was running toward them, bag in tow. As the steward held down the thrashing soldier, Joshua filled the syringe with the hastily mixed morphine solution before injecting it
into McHenry’s leg. Within moments, the delirious soldier had slipped into the blessed ignorance of slumber.

  Swindle wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his wrist. “Land sakes. What was that about?”

  Joshua clenched his jaw and shook his head, his own chest heaving as he watched the spent patient. “I don’t know. He kept hollering something about snakes and the Knights.”

  Swindle shrugged. “He’s just out of his head with fever.”

  Joshua frowned. “Perhaps.” Or was he? Suspicion took root and lodged deep.

  Steward Swindle straightened McHenry’s covers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything this here fellow has to say. I mean, I know it’s my duty to care for him and all, but what I’ve seen, he ain’t exactly the most respectable sort. Heard one of the other men in his regiment call him white trash.”

  A sudden memory surfaced. Sour breath and chipped, broken teeth. A sneer. A giant looming over Joshua as he curled in on himself, holding his aching ribs from the swift kick to his middle. His six-year-old body trembling as he peered through his swollen eye.

  “Yer nothin’ but trash. Garbage!”

  Joshua slammed his eyes shut, as if the action could sever the lash of the taunt from so many years ago. It never had, though he tried time and again.

  He studied the sleeping soldier, his chest twisting. What was it that tormented him so?

  Turning away, he sighed upon seeing the still form of Private Taylor. Arrangements had yet to be made for the lad. If Joshua blinked, he could still see Miss Piper keeping watch over the dead man’s body. He swallowed and looked away.

  Miss Piper was far too good for the likes of him and he’d do well to remember it.

  Angels and sinners didn’t mix. They never had and they never would.

  Chapter 8

  DEAR MISS PIPER,

  Can it be mere months since I last beheld your winsome smile or kissed your hand? Time seems to have stretched into an endless cycle of drills, marches, and terror. I thought the bleakness of winter would never cease, but the spring campaign has been far worse. The skirmishes have been difficult. I shall not tell you more, for I fear your delicate nature could not bear it. Only know I covet your prayers.

  You inquired how we fare on our rations. Were it not for coffee, I believe we would all languish. Hardtack is common, but the wafers are baked so hard, we have taken to calling them sheet-iron crackers. Private Newton asked the captain if our last batch had been passed down from the Mexican War. Captain Driggers was not amused. We were given a ration of pork last week, but it had gone rancid and we spent a miserable few days in agony. Cornmeal and coffee make the days bearable. How I long for my mother’s table!

  I enjoyed reading of your singing endeavors. An admirable contribution for a young lady to bolster the war effort. With Providence’s blessing, we should crush the Rebels in only a few more weeks and I shall return home to bounty, family, and best of all, you. It is the thought of your smile, and a future with you, that keeps me pressing forward. Dare I hope you feel the same?

  Until then,

  Stephen Dodd

  Cadence lowered the letter, her heart twisting. She enjoyed hearing from Stephen as a friend, but she’d never encouraged him beyond that. Yet with every passing missive he presumed more. She must be firmer in her intentions. How could she do so without stealing hope from his already-discouraged soul?

  “Letter from Stephen?”

  She looked up from her seat in the parlor to see Father enter, a cup of coffee in his hands. Steam rose in ribbons above its rim.

  “Yes.” She finished folding the note. “He is well, although he reports the soldiers are weary. Food is far from plentiful and poor in quality.”

  He grunted. “I’m afraid that’s to be expected. Too difficult to bring in proper nutrition for the troops while winding through marshland, fording creeks, and dodging cannon fire.”

  She tapped the letter against her lips. “Scurvy will set in if something isn’t done soon. And dysentery . . . it’s killing more of our men than Rebel bullets are.”

  Father frowned and squirmed in his chair. “You know far more than you should about such topics.”

  “I’m a nurse, am I not? Such things are a matter of my work.”

  His brows lowered, his lips pursing in a manner that boded no good. “Perhaps you should not be nursing then.”

  Her pulse galloped. Surely he would not deny her this. The letter slipped from between her fingers and fluttered to the floor. “But, Father, you granted me permission. The hospital needs me. The soldiers are in so much pain, and there aren’t enough nurses to bring them relief. If—”

  “Calm down.” He held up his hand. “I’m not refusing you.”

  She fought to still her racing heart.

  He studied her with sad eyes. “But disease, death . . . these are things you should not be forced to wallow in. Not at your age, not for your gender.”

  She sighed. “Times are changing.”

  “Is it wrong to want to shield you from the harsh cruelty of life?”

  Slipping from her chair, she knelt at his feet and clasped his hands. “I’m not a fragile china doll. I want to serve. To be useful. For me, a life of ease is a life wasted.”

  “They are not having you diagnose ailments, are they? Mix medications for the soldiers? I feel such tasks are beyond your understanding.”

  She bristled at the insinuation. “No, Father. The physicians are assigned to those tasks. Not I. The nurses change dressings, dispense the medications, and write letters home for the soldiers who are too ill to do so.” She pressed her lips closed. He did not need to know more. Such knowledge might cause him to relinquish his permission.

  A thick sigh escaped his lips. “How you managed to convince Miss Dix to allow you to be a nurse, I’ll never know.”

  Guilt stabbed her afresh. When she’d begged him to allow her to work with Dr. Ivy, he’d assumed she’d first received permission from Miss Dix. She’d not corrected him, only remained silent. Her sin rose up before her now, taunting her with its venomous shadow.

  Liar.

  The long-ago phrenologist’s face drifted through her mind, his sour breath sharp as it had been then.

  “You should not expect much from her. She hasn’t the capacity, you see. A language problem like hers is a sign of impaired brain function . . .”

  Fraud.

  Liar.

  She swallowed. Was it that Father was worried about her sensibilities or that he thought her incapable of doing the work? Something hot and strong rose up inside.

  Tell him the truth.

  She tamped down the urge burning for release. The phrenologist had been wrong. She could do the work. A slow tongue did not make a slow mind.

  She would prove him wrong, and then his dreadful pronouncement and its haunting refrain would finally be silenced.

  “Nurse Piper, could you see to filling the linen closet with fresh sheets before going home for the day?”

  Cadence turned to smile at Nurse Meyers. The widowed woman’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, her shoulders slumped.

  “Of course. You look done in.”

  Nurse Meyers arched her back, placed her hands in the small of it, and winced. “I know I’m not as old as some around here, but I feel my age around you, being a spring chicken like you are.” She laughed lightly. “Being up on my feet all day makes for a stiff back.”

  Cadence giggled. “If it makes you feel any better, I return home at night with my entire body aching.”

  “I believe it. This work is not for the faint of heart or body. By the way, I asked the stewards to sprinkle more lime over the pit where we empty the chamber pots in back.”

  “Thank you.” Cadence shuddered at the memory of the ghastly smell that had emanated from the waste pit behind the hospital that morning. Washington as a whole was beginning to reek from the overflow of people and garbage littering the roads. With the added stench from the hospital waste pits, the odor
was unbearable.

  Nurse Meyers gave her a concerned look. “You’ve been working more hours than any of us. You must rest, dearie.”

  “I know. I promise to return home within the half hour. I did want to have Dr. Ivy check on a new patient, though. His fever is not breaking as it should.”

  “I’m afraid Dr. Ivy has already left for the day.”

  Cadence couldn’t stifle her surprise. “So early in the evening? It’s not like him.”

  The nurse leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He’s a mystery, that one is. Disappears sometimes, always wearing that ratty green coat he keeps in his office.”

  “How long?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes just for the evening. Sometimes longer. Once he was gone for nearly four days without a word of explanation. When he returned, he acted as if he’d never been away.” She pinched her lips in a smirk and narrowed her eyes. “Nurse Pearson thinks he slinks away to drink, but I think he keeps a lady, if you catch my meaning.”

  Nausea crawled up her throat. A cold feeling curled through her middle, swiftly melting into a sting of betrayal. She pushed the odd sensation aside. Dr. Ivy owed her no explanations. He was nothing to her . . . so why the sharp pang of disappointment?

  She fumbled for some sort of gracious reply. “Did anyone ever ask him where he went on his excursions?”

  “One of the stewards did once. The doctor told him it had nothing to do with hospital business and refused to speak further on the matter.”

  “Perhaps it’s nothing of import.”

  “Then why hide it?”

  Why, indeed. Cadence had sensed something troubling Dr. Ivy for the past few days. Several times she’d walked past his office only to see him hunched over on his chair, his elbows on his knees, absently rolling a coin between his knuckles. From the quiet of the corridor she’d watched, marveling at the way he slipped the quarter from knuckle to knuckle, gliding it along with careless ease. Side to side, over and over.